The Scratched Pocket Watch
by Starluff
Summary: An uneventful day turns into a study of Holmes's fellow-lodger. Non-slash (unless you choose to see it as so, I suppose.)


***Title:** The Scratched Pocket Watch  
***Author(s):** Starluff  
***Rating:** G  
**Character(s)/Pairings:** Watson, Holmes  
***Summary:** An uneventful day turns into a study of Holmes's fellow-lodger.  
***Warnings:** None  
**Word Count:** 1029  
**Author's Notes:** Two things I want to say:

First, this is based in the Russian Sherlock Holmes series, The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. "What," you say, "there is a Russian Sherlock Holmes?" Yes, there is! The more you know, am I right? Faithful to canon, this adaptation is highly critically acclaimed, to the point that Vasily Livanov, the actor who portrayed Holmes, became an Honorary MBE (Member of the Order of the British Empire) for his portrayal of Sherlock Holmes. Neat, huh? As a result, there might be a minor detail or two that you don't recognize, but that's just minor. You don't need to know the series at all to read this!

Second, this fic goes out with lots of love to all the people who have commented on my lj or reviewed here on ; I love you all and you have encouraged me to continue writing! And maybe, just maybe, what I write isn't _complete _drivel. I hope this fic upholds the non-drivel standard set by my previous one. Enjoy!

* * *

Will no one tell me what she sings?-  
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow  
For old, unhappy, far-off things,  
And battles long ago

-_The Solitary Reaper_ by W. Wordsworth

Holmes sighed as he looked at his sheets of paper. Musical notes were written on it, the fruits of his past couple of hours of labor. He was having a problem with his muse; he was wracking his brains out for notes that would not come. His Stradivarius was within easy reach of him on the coffee table; he switched his pipe in favor of the Stradivarius and now went about raking the bow across the strings thoughtfully. The strings wined and wailed, but in a pleasant way; to Holmes at least. He mainly liked the feel of the bow sliding across the strings while his mind drifted; if it tried his fellow-lodger's patience, then he would be duly rewarded for his patience by a completed piece of music. Until then, they would all suffer through it somehow.

Footsteps on the stairs. Holmes didn't need to turn around to see who and why; besides, he liked the challenge of deducing facts without the use of his eyes. A useful skill that must be kept in practice. So, the doctor was coming down! Annoyed at the awful wailing, was he? _"Music? Yes, I like music. __But this... I thought someone was having a fit. Or a cat got caught in a pipe__." _That was what Watson had said the first time he had ever heard one of his impromptu solos. The memory made Holmes smile in amusement. He was quite adorable when he was irritated, more so when he was sleepy. But – wait, no, that didn't sound like the tread of the annoyed and long-suffering; it wasn't nearly heavy enough. No, it was a normal tread, with a slow, thoughtful pace that brought to mind preoccupation. All the better; if the doctor wasn't annoyed, then he wouldn't badger Holmes while he was trying to solve the puzzle of creation.

Ah, there he was, the good Doctor! It was just as Holmes had deduced; Watson showed no signs of anger or annoyance; in fact, he came in armed with his silver pocket watch, a cloth, and silver polish. It did not take a Consultant Detective to deduce his plans. So Watson sat down in his arm chair, seemingly oblivious to his fellow-lodger's less-than-admirable performance. Being frustrated and a little bored, Holmes could not avoid the temptation of analyzing this new-found specimen in the chair opposite. He analyzed the man within an inch of his life, though he was thoughtful enough not to vocalize any of his thoughts. The details that Holmes deduced were of an irrelevant nature, so they will not be recorded, other than that Watson had spent the day in his room. Come to think of it, it was a cold day; for Watson, that meant it was a house-arrest day.

Watson leaned back in his chair with a sigh, and held the pocket watch up for his own inspection. Holmes realized that he had never seen Watson polish his beloved watch before. Of course, he used to think that Holmes was a criminal master-mind before he told him his true occupation, so not much of surprise there. Now thoroughly intrigued, Holmes swapped his violin for his pipe and picked up his music sheet, pretending his attention was on it, when really it was on the man opposite.

Today may be a house-arrest day for the doctor, but that only referred to his physical self. It did not extend to his mental self, which seemed to be anywhere but Baker St. at the moment; Holmes wasn't even sure if it was currently in London at all. His eyes were faraway as he looked as the timepiece. He opened up the part that showed the scratched numbers; relics of its time at the pawn broker that Holmes had utilized to help him figure out Harry Watson's history. Watson ran his thumb across the scratches with a fond smile but a look of regret in his eyes. Did he regret the scratches, or the circumstances that had put them there, Holmes wondered? Did he think of his father, whose initials were engraved on it, or the brother who had so misused it?

The two stayed that way for the better part of fifteen minutes, one fingering his time piece, lost in another time and place, the other smoking and trying to guess the thoughts of the man opposite him. Eventually, Watson ceased his fiddling and took up the piece of cloth and took to polishing, with the air of a man determined to succeed where others had failed before him. Holmes had noted before that the watch was polished daily, thus deducing that Watson was a pedant; was there a reason for such pedantic conduct? It _was_ a beautiful watch, after all, but did the reason go deeper than that?

Here, Watson became a bit rueful, almost as if he was trying to be angry but couldn't quite manage it. The end result was melancholic. Before he had been sad but calm and thoughtful, now he was agitated. He was working himself up, slowly but surely. He grimaced, his actions were more forceful, his jaw clenched. Holmes watched all this inconspicuously, puffing away at his pipe. He found a strange, tight feeling in his chest as he watched the agitated ex-soldier that he wasn't quite sure he wanted to identify. The best course of action was to leave him his privacy; there were no words Holmes could offer that would make the past seem better. Yet the urge to do something to help the doctor persisted. Holmes gnawed at his pipe in annoyance.

Watson rested his hands and their contents in his lap and stared at the fireplace. His hands shook noticeably and his eyes glistened. Abruptly, he got out of the armchair, muttered some apology about being "such depressing company", and retreated to his room.

Holmes stared after him, thinking that "such depressing company" was quite pleasant, and found himself missing it.

And when, a week later, Watson found the sheet of music that Holmes had been working on so lovingly and diligently for a week, was entitled The Scratched Pocket Watch, well...

He didn't know quite what to think.


End file.
